Chapter 21 Chanel
Chanel
Once every couple of weeks, my mom will host one of her famous parties, and our house will become the local attraction. But this is her first party since the news about the divorce broke, and she’s gone all out on the decorations,
as if the sheer lavishness might distract guests from the fact that her cheating ex-husband is no longer in the picture. An
actual ice sculpture of a swan has been set up by the grand piano, and the legs of each table have been wrapped with a gold-edged
bow, the surface decorated with a clear glass vase containing a single lily stem or peach-blossom branch.
If my mom hadn’t put so much effort into hosting and absolutely insisted that I stay, I wouldn’t be here tonight. With only a few more days before prom, before the fire, I should be spending every
waking moment with Ares, trying to make him love me—not wandering around a room filled with C-drama actors and billionaire
entrepreneurs and culture-shaping boy-group singers.
I pass by Stella Yao, who first became famous through a romance drama when she was in her early twenties, and then again through a surprisingly popular variety show featuring once-famous female celebrities over the age of thirty.
Her raven hair is pinned up to show off her emerald earrings and ballerina’s neck, and she’s swirling her champagne around and around in its flute without drinking it while she chats with a younger, lesser-known actress.
“I think it’s good for me, at the end of the day,” she’s saying, in the overly authoritative voice of someone who’s trying
to convince herself as much as everyone else. Has probably tested this line out loud in front of the mirror before coming
here. “I haven’t been single since I was fifteen. And so I never figured out who I really was by myself. Now, I have all this
freedom—I can do whatever I want, like . . . like—” She pauses, thinking hard, then triumphantly jerks her glass forward so
fast that champagne sloshes out of it. “Like gardening.”
“Oh, yes, gardening,” the other actress says. “Gardening is great. Always wanted to get into it.”
“Same—and now I can. I have this list of flowers I’m going to start planting—I want roses and daffodils and magnolias. I could
plant fruit too! Grow my own little patch of raspberries . . .”
“That’s wonderful, Stella,” the other actress says, playing her part. “I’m so happy for you. Raspberries! How exciting.”
“Yes, at the end of the day, this really is for the best,” Stella repeats, as if she’s arriving at a startling new conclusion,
rather than circling back to an old one. “A blessing in disguise. Everything happens for a reason, as they say.”
The actress nods politely and sips more of her champagne until they’re joined by a young singer, who’s been riding a wave of success all throughout the winter and is clearly there in search of praise—which comes right away.
“Oh my god, Wenwen, I’ve been listening to your new album and let me tell you, I cried,” the actress gushes.
“I cried too. No, I sobbed. Your voice is so beautiful,” Stella says, the two of them in an open competition to see who can
be more gracious and generous and prove themselves totally unbothered by this shiny newcomer.
“I’m just so happy for you and all your well-deserved success,” the actress continues, not to be outdone.
To these people, happiness is a brand, a status symbol to be paraded around like a Bugatti. Happiness doesn’t mean anything
unless it’s visible to others, proof that they did everything right and that they’re better than everyone.
It’s exhausting. And strangely, it makes me miss Ares. How honest he is, how real he is, in a way that none of the people here seem to be. If I were with him right now, I wouldn’t have to pretend, wouldn’t
have to fill awkward conversations with fake niceties and listen to conversations that aren’t interesting or laugh at jokes
that aren’t funny. I could simply be a girl, not Chanel Cao.
As the party wears on, bite-sized dishes come out in gleaming trays, carried by pretty waitresses in tailored qipaos. There’s
golden scrambled tofu laid out on delicate lotus flowers; taro pieces dipped in melted sugar and stretched into the shape
of hearts; yolk-stuffed buns and flaking nut-filled pastries decorated to resemble swans, with sesame seeds for eyes and custard
swirls for wings; glazed sea bass and tender lobster bites laced with saffron and bright, edible flowers.
And beside each plate and platter is a silver strip of paper, containing a line from an ancient Chinese poem—something about peach blossoms and the fleeting seasons and an isolated mountain hut.
Little gasps and appreciative murmurs sweep across the room, and even from here, I can make out the gleam of satisfaction
in my mom’s eyes. This is her goal, to throw a party deemed luxurious by those already accustomed to luxury. To impress the
most impressive. To be seen as living a lucky life, which is more important to her than whether or not her life is something
she actually likes.
I flit between cliques and tables, a glass of apple cider in my hand, making meaningless chatter about how school’s going
and the restaurants in Paris I’d recommend and how fun Krystal Lam’s concert in Shanghai was and did you hear about this new
eyeshadow palette? I’m impressed by my own acting skills, how perfectly put-together I look. The girl reflected in the black
marble is smiling wide, like this party was thrown just for her, her red lips matching her red-bottom heels.
“. . . can’t believe it’s been three years already! I still remember you as a little kid—but you’re basically a woman now.”
The middle-aged man smiling down at me must be the fiftieth or sixtieth person I’ve spoken to tonight. Stout and balding,
he’s wearing an outfit that’s utterly uninteresting, except for the diamond belt fastened around his middle. Every time he
shifts position, the precious gems sparkle, their light dancing off the marble pillars. Tuhao, my mom would call him behind his back—a term for those with an astounding amount of money and a shocking lack of taste. My
mom’s worst nightmare is getting lumped into that category.
“Yes, well,” I say as enthusiastically as possible. Though his name escapes me, this tuhao is the business director for one of my mom’s sponsors. It’s important that I leave a good impression.
“You must be very strong,” he goes on.
“Sorry?”
“What happened with your mother . . .” He clucks his tongue. “A shame, a shame.”
“We’re doing just fine,” I assure him, and breathe an inward sigh of relief when he’s called away by someone who looks like
they could be his brother or boss or possibly both.
I go to find my mom in the crowd, hoping for permission to retire early from the party and find Ares, but she’s busy speaking
to someone else. Someone familiar, but not from a red carpet or TV show. Blood roars in my ears.
It’s him.
The scar on his cheek. The gelled hair.
Long Ge is here.
“Oh, this is my daughter, Chanel,” my mom says, beckoning me closer. This should be my cue to say “Shushu hao” in my sweetest voice and smile, but all I can do is stare at the man in horror, my heart thudding so fast I feel sick.
The man turns slowly toward me. “Chanel, is it? Pleasure to meet you.”
There’s no malice in his expression, yet my gut won’t stop churning. In my head, I see the paparazzi photos of my mom tucked
into a drawer, the unsent love letters, the proof of his obsession. I want to recoil. Scream at him to get away. “Nice to
meet you,” I manage.
“This is my friend Long Ge,” my mom introduces. “Or, well—I should call you Long Zong now.”
He waves his hand, looking exceptionally pleased. “Oh, please, don’t embarrass me. Just Long Ge is fine.”
“You’re being far too humble,” my mom insists. “Long Zong here is the CEO of multiple highly successful corporations, including this exciting new media advertising agency he was just telling me about.”
“Yes, well, as I was saying, you would be the perfect fit,” Long Ge says, and the bad feeling in my stomach solidifies. “We’ve
recently signed a few models, but just between us, none of them have quite the reach and influence you do.”
My mom laughs. “Okay, now you’re the one embarrassing me.”
“I’m being serious. And you know we’d work well together—”
“Mom,” I can’t help interrupting. “Mom, I need to talk to you about . . .” I try to think of a good excuse, but my thoughts
are all jumbled, falling apart on the spot. “My wardrobe. I think I lost one of my dresses. The really pretty pink one I bought
last weekend.”
Without moving a single facial muscle that could cause a premature wrinkle, my mom shoots me a look that screams Can’t you see I’m talking to someone important?
I act like I don’t see it. “If you could just help me for a second—”
“Later, Chanel,” she says through gritted teeth. “Sorry about that,” she adds to Long Ge, her voice pleasant. “As we were saying . . .”
“I’ll have my assistant send you the details of the contract tonight, if you’re interested,” Long Ge tells her.
“That would be fabulous—”
“Mom,” I try again, the panic closing in around me like a physical force, as if the air has turned solid. “Seriously, I really
need to talk—”
She ignores me. “I’ll have my team look over it.”
“If you have any questions, we could always discuss it in greater depth over dinner,” Long Ge says, extending a hand, and
all I can see is him in the vision, the flames licking the sky.
My mom reaches out to shake it, but I grab her arm. Pull her back.
“Oh my god, Mom, please,” I whisper. “Stop talking to him. You don’t know what he wants.”
She whips toward me, her eyes wide with incredulity. “What is going on with you?” she hisses under her breath. “You’re acting
very rude, Chanel. He’s an old classmate of mine, and he’s been extremely sympathetic and supportive after hearing the news—”
“He’s dangerous,” I blurt out. “He . . . he’s obsessed with you.”
My words are met with a terrible silence.
In the background, conversations are still flowing, more wine poured into fancy glasses, the appetizers being passed from
tray to tray: crystal bowls of sweetened red bean congee and platters of iced fruits—peeled longans from Guangxi, sliced dragon
fruit from Hainan, glistening purple grapes from Australia.
But the silence seems to spread and congeal, until the whole room feels suspended in motion, amplifying the loud, ragged beat of my heart.
Long Ge’s expression appears frozen in a mask of polite confusion, but something dark shifts in his eyes as he appraises me.
A look so chilling that I actually stumble back a step, my fingers trembling so hard I drop the phone in my hand.
It falls with a loud clatter to the hardwood floor, and before I can move, Long Ge bends down calmly to pick it up.
“Here you go,” he says, his voice still perfectly amiable. But as he starts handing my phone over, he glances at the lock
screen, the photo of Ares glowing over it. It’s the photo I’d taken of him at the tattoo parlor, zoomed in to his collarbones
and the arm he has propped up on one knee, the ring glinting on his thumb. For a second, recognition flickers over Long Ge’s
face.
I think back to the dragon symbol carved into the office door at the fight club. Is Long Ge the reason why Ares has been fighting
there the whole time? And just how well does Long Ge know Ares?
“What are you talking about?” my mom demands. “You’ve never even met Long Zong before.”
“No,” I say. Shake my head, frustration choking off the very air in my lungs. I don’t have enough time to explain, can’t find
the right words to. “I mean . . . please, you have to trust me—”
“I think your daughter has confused me with someone else,” Long Ge says gently. “We certainly have not met before. I understand,
I have one of those faces, you know. Happens all the time.” He lets out a generous laugh, and my mom joins in, though the
sound is strained.
I stare between them. Suddenly I can see this moment playing out like I’m a bystander: Long Ge, the successful, dignified businessman, a trusted old classmate, with his pressed suit and expensive watch and cheerful, patient manner.
And me, the spoiled daughter, volatile, impulsive, impossible to reason with.
Two adults in a world of their own, while I’m just a kid throwing a tantrum.
I can’t convince my mom to steer clear of him, not without evidence, and I can’t provide any evidence without telling her about the vision—and why would she believe me?
It feels like the ground is turning to quicksand beneath my feet. Desperate, I twist around before I can sink completely to
the bottom. My heels click against the marble, my hair flowing behind me, my breathing tight and shallow and too loud in my
ears. I walk so fast I almost crash into one of the waitresses, who tries to offer me congee.
Behind me, I hear my mom’s voice over the crowd, sweet and apologetic: “I’m so sorry about her. I have no idea what that was—”
“No, I get it. Teenagers—they can be very emotional, can’t they?”
“I don’t remember us being quite so dramatic when we were younger.”
“Ah, who knows what the new generation is thinking, hmm? Though you’re still very young. If I hadn’t known you all those years
ago, I would’ve confused you for a teenager.”
“Please, you flatter me.”
Their laughter chases me all the way out the door.